Landing in London
by hiddendaisy1821
Summary: Sherlock returns to London. Post 2x03. A character study of sorts.


**Title: **Landing in London

**Summary**: Sherlock returns to London. Post 2x03. A character study of sorts.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

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"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield." – Mycroft, 1x01

-oo-

The grey color which unveiled the morning sky sailed across his small landscape. The truth is he didn't feel tired, didn't feel drained, not by the facts, events or the game of cat and mouse that he played. As people would say, it was time to face the music. Questioning him, where he was wouldn't have any point, sense or a common goal to further the truth. No, what matters is the set of mind that brought him through. What, you would ask. What can be more important than the knowledge where the great Sherlock Holmes was? The question and the answers to how he hid, schemed, and fled his way out of Britain, what could be, you would ask.

Well, first of all I can't be bothered with the explanation, can't be bothered with the things and ripples of the heart, no Sherlock Holmes was all about the mind.

Let us say I am the space that I currently occupy. I am this tired and well warned chair and I am this worn and well walked path beneath, a tired man, some would say. Well, when you search for the truth, search for what's over the line, men tend to seal their reach and from their minds to exert the physical greatness of the man and Sherlock Holmes was such a man. He was people around him. The tired, the weary. Ones who have traveled too much, the ones who were begging in their heads to be somewhere else and probably saying this isn't a way to live. Let us be honest – they are right. They do not know how to live. Because all great man live through actions and live to prove their minds worth and for that he will cross any line.

Some would say, he doesn't have friends. They would say he's a one acid trip from the edge of murder. Some would say he's a lost boy, absent from his family life (if he ever had one). And they would say, oh look, that boy had nobody to help him and yet again, they would be wrong. It is not that he doesn't need help - it is that he doesn't want it. The obligation to follow through on your debts and your dealings.

He is a kind of person who doesn't have friends. He has family. Not in a regular sense of the word, more like a loyal dog – he gathers around him only those who strive to be better, to change the ordinary, to suffer through indignity of always being wrong and always trying to validate themselves in the eyes of the world. That family would do anything for him.

They would lie, cheat, steal and probably kill – in some sense of that word; in which he would never test them, never put them in a position to actually make such a decision. Because those are the decisions that are reserved only for him. For that reason the bearing and harboring of resentment, anguish and other unimportant adjectives falls easily, maybe not so squarely, on his shoulders. When it comes down to the wire he will always make such decisions on their behalf.

A sharp noise interrupts his mundane train of thought. The plane is landing, the scratch of the tires on the pavement jerks the plane as it fully stabilizes on the ground. This reminds him of many decisions which have provoked a negative action in the eyes of his companions, friendly or otherwise. But just like this plane, it smooths out and reaffirms his decisions as the right ones, to which his "companions" must conclude are right.

Once again a superior mind and a simple deduction can convince people that most of his decisions were right when they were to believe otherwise. Oh he hasn't even tried to put some real work and talent to action. Those are reserved for more formidable and worthy foes. For now he must follow the line that others are following, just like people exiting the plane. For now he will blend. Study from afar. And show his face when the time is right, that critical moment which will change the grand picture and pull it in an unexpected direction, one which was not planned by his unseen enemies. He will strike back harder and more vicious than ever. London will never be the same again.

As his feet touch the pavement, a sense of excitement and relief flows through him. The deep breath that follows to remind him – yes, he is back to where he belongs. It is time to put his plan into action. The thought comes to a sudden halt, just as another set of shoes stand opposite to him.

"Dear brother I expected you three days earlier but let's be honest, if your previous behavior lets us deduce anything, it is your sense for theatrics."

"Let the first stage commence."

"Well Mycroft let's pretend that you were worried for at least a second before you decided to use your government mind."

As he snaps his umbrella close the ever stoic face and calculated eyes that could probably divulge more England's secrets then the queen herself, impassively states "Well you did make me stand here for five minutes in the rain. Let's go before you decide to involuntarily start a war by unknown organization by staring down at their approved officials and pitying their small minds." A small pause and then, "It's time to go home."

Sherlock contemplates briefly about asking where home is nowadays but if his older brother knows him as well as he believes he does, there is no need for such inquiries.

Half an hour later the car passes by the Baker Street and the apartment with the slick black door and the number 221B, blurry through the rain stained window and only stops in front of a grand mansion on the outskirts of the city. Sherlock steps out of the car to a clear morning sky and lays eyes on his childhood home for the first time in years before following Mycroft inside.

It was time for him and his brother to gather their wits together and bring an end to this.


End file.
